


Love Songs For Apocalypse

by lena



Series: Love Songs For Apocalypse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drugs, Gen, M/M, POV Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lena/pseuds/lena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It sometimes occurs to John that yes, they do a lot in reverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Songs For Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked. But a heartfelt thanks goes out to the lovely and encouraging Julia, who always says I should write more :)

There is a sheet of paper pinned to their fridge door, and John notices it first when he comes down in the morning. It is an ordinary sheet - cheap printer quality paper, neat edges, not even slightly crinkled – and it is completely blank.

When John draws his fingers over the flawless surface, it gives a most curious rustle, but stays in place. Just ordinary paper then, held up by sticky tape. His fingers come away white, though, and he takes a moment to inspect them closely before deciding it is probably just chalk. Who knows what Sherlock has done to it?  
John holds his fingers under the tap and prays that _someone_ has at least fixed the kettle. He can't very well make tea with cold water.

 

* * *

April, it had been April, of course it had been April! Should have seen it sooner, wouldn't have needed that last piece of evidence at all. But where was – oh. Oh! Stupid, shouldn't have left him at the flat, too much possible outcomes. Nothing for it now, need to get there quickly. Can't have him notice my reason. Need to come up with excuse. Cab, address, cash, stairs, door. More stairs, another door. Clothes.  
“John? Have you seen my-”  
John is not here. Shouldn't have left him, too late, where is he? Mobile dead, not in the room either.  
“John?” Upstairs. John may have needed his mobile, he forgot to plug the charger in before he went to bed last night – he could have gone upstairs to do it. Stairs.  
“John?” John.

“Weren't you the one who told me repetitions were tedious?” Quotes, air quotes, he's joking. He's breathing. He's – not dead. Sitting on bed, smiling lightly, fingers curled around an American journal about cancer kids. He looks – good. Not dead, but cautious now. Shouldn't have hesitated at the door. Need banal reason for barging in. Turn halfway, dip head, hide eyes.

“You took my skull, I need it back.” Not sufficient. He's too attentive. He's -

Looking like he knows what could have happened.  
How did I overlook this? He must have accidentally touched it, only he didn't. Didn't what? He must have touched it, but then he'd be dead. No mobile. How...? Oh. That was clever. So very, very clever. Well done, John. But how did he test it? No kit at hand, I don't keep one, he has no reason to. Only Lestrade would have – but it's still here. John didn't call him. Sheet on the fridge, mobile charging.

“What did you do?”

* * *

It sometimes occurs to John that yes, they do a lot in reverse. He should be furious, but in reality it's probably Sherlock now who's the most frustrated because he can't work out _what happened_. He should be able to work it out, by all means. He will. It won't take much longer. But in the meantime, John can take a moment to appreciate the sheer luxury of being alive in spite of a mad flatmate who leaves highly purified cocaine lying around their home. He's not going to let that feeling go to waste by yelling, or possibly throwing things. No, wouldn't be like him at all.

Which is why it's also highly satisfying to watch the shock bloom on Sherlock's features as the pillow hits him squarely in the chest.

“ARE YOU COMPLETELY OUT OF YOU FUCKING MIND?”

Sherlock takes a step back, looking more thoughtful than surprised. The fucker. John is on his feet in a second. Two quick steps bring him right into Sherlock's personal space, and John has his upper arms in a tight grasp before he can twist away.

“You don't get to leave toxic substances in our flat and then ask me why I'm not dead.” Each word is a harsh whisper, and it's possible that his fingers dig into Sherlock's skin a lot harder than necessary, but he honestly doesn't care. Sherlock shouldn't treat this like he does everything else. If he keeps this up, this attitude, one of them is going to leave – one way or the other.

But then Sherlock's eyes lock onto his, and the sheer _despair_ in them brings John up short.

“I thought you were dead,” Sherlock says.  
“I thought you were gone. I knew your mobile was turned off because you forgot to charge it, and then I imagined the cocaine hitting your bloodstream on the stairs. I couldn't get to you fast enough. It was hateful,” he spits out.  
“I don't want to experience it again.”

John is tempted to say: “Well, too bad,” but he settles for a slightly more mature approach.

“This is how I feel every time you do something reckless. It's... okay to worry.” He let's go of Sherlock's arms and steps back. But Sherlock seems bemused.  
“Why did you stop touching me?”

“Oh hell,” John says.  
“Sorry?”  
“I merely wanted to voice my concerns that I'm in no way qualified to deal with you. I don't think anyone is.”

Sherlock's expression switches effortlessly from bemused to amused. “Of course you are,” and John doesn't think he imagines the warm flicker of affection in his tone.

“Tell me what you did,” Sherlock finally demands.  
“And kindly resume touching my arms. It has a very calming effect on me.”


End file.
